WHIP IN STAFF

Happy New Year to you all. May the Year of the Rabbit bring us great fortune and happiness. If not, may the fates align and put the fucker in our crosshairs so we may kill him and make a yummy rabbit stew. It’s getting ugly out there.

Yesterday, on my way to the people’s dental vans, off the feeder road to 35, I saw a guy with a sign that read:

I, PROLITAREAN

DON’T OWN ANYTHING

EXCEPT MY LABOR, WHICH IS FOR SALE

CAPITALISM SUX

I don’t fault the poor guy for finding himself on the bottom of the food chain and blaming Capitalism, but I secretly hated him for making up his own words for the cause. I rolled down my window and gave him all the change in my cup holder.

“God bless you.” I heard him say as he put the change in his sack, nearly missing my turn off. The gas light on my dash had been on since I left the gig at the Whip the night before. The rear shock is out and she’s in bad need of an oil change. All I had to do was get my rent check in the mail and deposit the fat wad of ones in my front pocket at the bank. Then, if I made it back to my apartment, where a $70 check from Rold Promotions should’ve been waiting in my mail slot, I’d turn right around, go back to the bank, deposit the check and refuel.

All of this to be broke again. Busted. Flat. But with enough gas in my tank I’d make it down to my gig at the Beale Street Tavern and have a chicken fried chicken in my stomach and another pocket full of ones by midnight.

The New Year was looking grim. I was robbing Peter to pay Paul and I’d been woken up with what felt like vicegrips clamping DOWN on my TMJ.

“That’s your Temporal Mandibular Joint. “, the good Dr.Gupta told me in the vans. It was not an abscess, which as a broke musician I know about all too well. Teeth are like dice you roll in this gamble I call my Life. In fact, my next collection of poetry will be called Eye Teeth from the Artiste Do you like that title? Anyway, I was rudely awakened by this throbbing unholy vicegrip fucker on the first Monday of the new year and I wasn’t sure if I would have my rent paid and gas in my car by end of day.

Being nocturnal and unemployed and not seeing the light of day for 4 months made me feel like I was sleeping in a wine bottle. My vision was bad, and I stank. Have you ever woke a bat? It’s nasty, trust me. I was thrust into the middle of the highway with unholy fucking hell pain in my jaw, swearing and hating everybody’s everything at 10 in the morning.

“YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT!” was my mantra as I was blowing doors down Ben White Blvd under the headache-yellow sun. There were some Bad Vibes songs I was screaming at them although I can’t remember which.

(By the way, I’m bringing up a motion before City Council to change the name of Ben White Blvd to Poor White Turnpike. I hope I can count on your support and I hope to see you all down at the dome.)

I’m lucky to live in a town where my immediate dental needs can be met by virtue of being a musician and belonging to HAAM. I was not so lucky to have 3 doctors ask me the same questions for three hours in a van off the feeder to 35 while the clock was ticking. If I didn’t make it to the post office before they closed, my rent check would not be postmarked for the 3rd and it would be late. There would be late fees, money I didn’t have, trouble.

Time was running out. After my dentist appointment I decided to risk what scant gas I had left and go immediately back to my apartment, pick up the check, THEN head to the bank and make my deposits. When I got home, not only was there no check, there was a note on my door from Pamor properties that said they were raising our water bill. Mine was $70. Go fucking figure. Pamor Properties, they just bought the place and now they’re busy taking out prospective tenants on golf cart rides and raising water bills. I almost swerved into Polly Pamor’s golf cart coming down the hill and speeding round the complex but I made it to the bank.

When I stepped up to the teller I could see, through the window behind her, a familiar face at the drive thru tellers, outside. It was Woody, in his truck, with his DOC OCS on and his gay beard blazing. I deposited the ones and got out of there.

Just for kicks, I ran around to the drive through with my hood up to attempt a mock stickup on our friend Woody. He had his head down; he was busy counting his money.

“HANDS UP WHO WANTS TO DIE?!” I screamed, reaching in towards his lap to seize the booty.

Then, from out of the dark recesses of Woody’s passenger cab, three hysterical girls who looked no older than 12, emerged and were clawing at me, digging their nails IN to me, screaming and hissing. It was like a Greek tragedy and they were this three headed, six-armed goddess. Like some Dionysus, I disengaged from the swarm and Woody flicked his cigarette at me.

“You don’t fuck with Uncle Woody!” a young twat sitting shotgun spat at me as they sped away. I had long, blonde hairs all over my woolen Swiss Army jacket and a gash on my cheek from one of those bitches press on nails. I was out of options. Flat broke, without gas and blood on my clothes. I had enough money in my checking account to cover my rent but then what?

I made it to the Post Office. As I was leaving I came up with the Idea. It wasn’t a great idea, born out of desperation, really, and it all depended on one thing: if I had enough gas to make it back to the feeder road by the dental vans where this wretched day began. This became my mantra then, as I slowly crept along:”if I have enough gas to make it, back to the feeder road, by the dental vans, where this wretched day began“ –I repeated my mantra the whole way up the feeder road northbound “if I have enough gas to make it back to the feeder road, by the dental vans, where this wretched day began“ –the sun had set on Hippie Town and it was getting dark and cold “ if I have enough gas-wait, why am I telling you all of this?

I’m sorry.

I wasn’t able to tip you as I should’ve the last few months. Wiggs, I know, you won’t take my money, but, you’ve got to understand. Musicians are low, base people. And writer’s? Shit-the only thing lower than a writer is maybe a pedophile and not the good kind of pedophile like Woody. As we enter the Chinese Century, I want you to know that I am thankful. Thanks for putting up with me and my $2 songs. Thanks for letting me make my own Americanos. As a member of the food service industry and as a human being it is my duty and honor to serve YOU. At least it was.

The walls have come DOWN and there’s a storm, coming now, to this country. The 112th Congress is now in session and if you think Obama’s Fauxgressivism was bad, wait til you get a load of these motherfuckers. It’s getting harder and harder in this country to think there’s anything wrong with stealing a bum’s bag of change off the feeder road to 35. Its capitalism, after all, and he’s right. It sux.

Jim Trainer is a communicator. Growing up in the hardcore scene of the early 90’s taught him everything he needed to know about real work. Jim Trainer believes in rock and roll. It may be our only salvation in this dark world. He’s carried the torch for independent media, broadcasting ... Continue reading →